


Where Love and Money Are Made

by Malivrag



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pretty Woman Fusion, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Awkward Romance, Interspecies Romance, M/M, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 04:21:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3367616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malivrag/pseuds/Malivrag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a prompt from the kink meme: "Peter sometimes makes money from prostitution, selling his body to the least dangerous-looking clients he can find (usually). But one day, he's running pretty low on cash and fuel, and when Ronan's ship lands where he is (clearly belonging to someone important) he decides he should take a chance.</p>
<p>He makes his offer to Ronan, who eventually proposes that Peter stay on his ship; they'll transport him and give him food and pay, while Ronan has sex with him. Peter thinks that sounds more than generous, and accepts. It's not the most comfy of rides. The sex is fine, but Peter is confined to a small section of the ship (and where his own is held) because of Ronan's TOP SECRET BUSINESS. Peter is tempted to look around and spy any more money-making opportunities, but decides maybe it would be better to lay low, get the money now and then listen out for anything suspicious to save getting killed..."</p>
<p>AKA: Guardians of the Galaxy, Pretty Woman-style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Love and Money Are Made

This was the worst day Peter Quill had had in... awhile. A few weeks, at least.  
  
His last job (a bog-standard smuggling job) blew up into a firefight and Peter counted himself lucky to have escaped with his life -- unfortunately, he also escaped without payment or cargo, as the guy he'd contracted with had gotten a new ventilation hole right between his eyes, thanks to a business rival he'd pissed off at some point or another. Peter had limped his way to the Coriolis Wheel, a rotating space station on the outskirts of Majesdanian space. He'd spent his last credits to dock the Milano, leaving him without any way to pay for repairs, supplies, or even a hot shower.   
  
Sighing, Peter slumped against the hull of his ship, fiddling with his Walkman and watching the aliens pass by, going to and fro about their business. He'd fixed his ship as much as he could on his own, broken nails and exhausted himself, and the thing still wasn't space-worthy. No freaking way he was crawling back to Yondu and risk getting thrown out an airlock for having lost his cargo and his money. He was going to have to con his way out of this.  
  
Peter was running through his mental list of cons, trying to decide which alien he should try credit-skimming, when flashing lights and horns interrupted his thoughts. A gigantic spaceship was docking with the Coriolis Wheel, and onlookers had gathered to gawk at it. Intrigued, Peter ambled over to join the crowd.  
  
It was a Kree warship without a doubt: they reminded Peter of one of Earth's birds of prey.  _That_  kicked Peter's schemes into high gear. With contact lenses, he could pass for a White Kree in much of the galaxy, so long as no one ran a scan on his physiology. Whoever was piloting this ship was without a doubt a powerful and important Kree official. There  _had_  to be some way to spin this to his advantage.  
  
The warship's docking door swung open, and the crowd scrambled to get back to avoid getting hit. Peter shoved and elbowed his way through the crowd, trying to get close enough to see. Several uniformed and heavily armed White Kree exited the warship, followed by a Blue Kree in ceremonial dress, his face blackened, carrying a Universal Weapon. An Accuser.  
  
Peter had never seen an Accuser up close before (never wanted to, either, considering what usually became of people who came face to face with an Accuser) and his first impression was that this guy was  _big_. He was tall, he was broad, he was seven feet of solid Kree, and he could, without question, kill a Terran like Peter without breaking a sweat and ruining that black face paint. This guy had been born and bred to rule one of the galaxy's most ancient and powerful empires, and he had a look on his face like he expected everyone to respect that.  
  
From his place on the sidelines, Peter was an anonymous face in the crowd. But as the Accuser walked by him, he turned and fixed those eerie eyes on Peter, taking in his worn Ravager jacket, the streak of oil marring Peter's cheek, his tousled reddish hair. A thrill ran down Peter's spine at the appraising look the Accuser gave him. He knew what that look meant.  _I can work wit this_ , thought Peter, and his lips turned up in a smirk.

Peter shadowed the Kree through the crowd, following them from place to place. He got his opportunity to get some face-time with the Accuser later that evening, at a dining joint on the main concourse.  
  
He lurked in the back at first, watching and hoping to get the Accuser alone and talk to him. It wasn't that Peter was  _shy_ , but the White Kree lieutenants surrounding the guy were armed to the teeth and dedicated to keeping the rabble away from their boss. If Peter had to, he would hook up with one of the lieutenants, but he  _wanted_  the the big guy.   
  
In his life, Peter had been influenced by two powerful and opposing forces: his childhood on Earth, and his childhood with the Ravagers. He'd been raised by a moral mother who wanted the best for him and encouraged him to work hard and not to fight. He'd  _also_  been raised by an amoral pack of space pirates who scorned honest work and took what they wanted. Prostituting himself was just another trick in the Ravager arsenal, albeit one that Yondu didn't care for. Yondu's opinion was that whoring yourself was still  _work_ , and a smash and grab was better.  _"If'n you got to save your life, fuck 'im, dump 'im, and get the hell out,"_  was Yondu's sage advice.  
  
Peter wasn't sure what his mother would've thought of the matter, but his childhood memories of the other kids calling his mom a "slut" and a "whore" implied that it was probably nothing good. His stomach growled loudly, and Peter cringed a little. He wouldn't survive for too much longer without a credit to his name, so this probably fell under the "necessary to save your damn life" clause in Yondu's book, and hopefully his mom's spirit would understand.   
  
That's about when Ronan did the first of many surprising things: he came right up to Peter, holding up one hand in a signal that seemed to tell his White Kree lieutenants to hold back. He walked right up to Peter and stared at him.  _Hard_. Peter was so taken aback that he looked to the right and then the left and mouthed 'Me?'  
  
"Terran, you have watched me all evening," rumbled the Accuser. "You will explain yourself."  
  
Peter's first reaction was to think,  _shit, he knows I'm a Terran._  His second was to say, as coolly as he could muster, "Looking's free. Touching's gonna cost ya."  
  
The Accuser's stare somehow became even more penetrating. "Come again?"  
  
Peter pulled at his collar, trying not to look like he was sweating. Fuck, if this guy got pissed off he could snap Peter's neck like a twig. "I'm a working man, if you're not buying, step aside," he said, trying to sound like he did this all the time.  
  
The Accuser's mouth actually fell open a little. "Are you --are you --" he sounded like he couldn't believe he was about to say this. "-- a  _prostitute_?"  
  
Was prostitution an executable offense under Kree law? Peter wracked his brain, trying to figure out if he'd just made a huge mistake and this Accuser guy was about to accuse, try, and execute him right here and now. "Maybe?" he said hesitantly.  
  
At this, the Accuser turned around, looked back at his lieutenants as though silently beseeching them for help, and finally whirled on his feet to face Peter once more. "Did someone put you up to this?" he asked Peter.  
  
"Like what, a pimp?" Peter furrowed his brow, now more confused that ever. The Accuser didn't seem angry or righteous, just... astonished.   
  
"Did someone kidnap you from your homeworld and force you into this?"  
  
"Yes -- no -- I mean -- you buying or not?" Peter blurted out. A waiter walked past holding a tray of food, and Peter stared at it longingly. He hadn't eaten in 36 hours and counting.

The Accuser seemed to consider this answer. "Follow me," he said solemnly, as he turned around and headed back to the table where the White Kree lieutenants were stationed. Peter followed a couple steps behind, debating whether to cut and run or see this trick out to the end. The Accuser spoke to a waiter in low tones, and then turned to Peter and gestured for him to sit down. Peter lowered himself into a chair, swallowing hard. At the signal from the Accuser, the lieutenants all stood and ringed around the table, blocking it (and Peter) from view.  
  
The Accuser sat across from Peter, putting his hands on the table where Peter could see them. "You may speak safely with me. Were you kidnapped and forced into prostitution?"  
  
"Um," said Peter. The Accuser had somehow figured out he was a Terran on sight, maybe the guy had some sophisticated method of knowing when he was being lied to, so Peter decided not to chance it and piss the guy off. "I was kidnapped, yes. No one is making me sell myself. I'm just broke, man."  
  
The circle of lieutenants opened just long enough for a waiter to appear and put a plate in front of Peter. It was identical to the order that Peter had longingly stared at just minutes before. Deciding,  _what the hell_ , Peter dug in immediately.   
  
The Accuser seemed to consider what Peter had told him. "So you are doing this of your own will," he said. It didn't sound like a question.  
  
Peter swallowed a mouthful of food and told him, "Look, I appreciate the meal. But you looked like the biggest spender in this rat-hole, and if you're not paying me, I need to find someone who will. I gotta get my ship fixed."   
  
The Accuser actually dropped his penetrating stare to look down at his clasped hands. His fingers had knit together, and Peter could see his hands shaking a bit. Wow, it was as if this guy was  _nervous_. "Ten million credits," said the Accuser.  
  
Peter choked around a mouthful of food.  _Holy fuck_! One of the Kree lieutenants thumped him on the back until he could breathe again. "Ten million credits?!" Peter yelped.  
  
"Very well, twenty million. Half now, half when you leave." The Accuser narrowed his eyes at him, as though to say,  _you drive a hard bargain._  
  
Peter desperately tried to regain his composure while his brain screamed at him,  _Twenty million credits!_  "Done," said Peter, and he stuck out his hand. The Accuser looked at his hand, and then at Peter, then back to his hand.  
  
Peter rolled his eyes. "It's an Earth custom. We shake on things. I'm gonna be sucking and fucking you until the heat death of the universe, I want to shake your hand."  
  
The Accuser hesitantly took his hand and gave it a little shake. "You shall know me as Ronan the Accuser," he told Peter grandly.  
  
"Starlord, at your service."

* * *

 

Ronan was good enough to wait while Peter finished his meal, and as he ate Peter tried to check him out discretely. Ronan sat with his back ramrod straight, his hands still clasped before him on the table. The shaking in his hands had subsided a bit. Up close, he was handsomer than Peter had dared hope, once you got past the face paint and those intense eyes. Peter had never been with a Kree man before, but he still carried a scar from the one Kree girl he'd bedded. He flinched a little at the memory; he really didn't need any new claw marks or puncture wounds.  
  
Even that nigh-imperceptible motion caught Ronan's attention. "What is wrong?" he asked Peter.  
  
"Uh, nothing," Peter assured him, putting on his brightest smile and pushing the plate aside. "Ready when you are."  
  
Ronan sat there and stared at him as though frozen to the spot. It took Peter a second to realize that this guy  _had no freaking clue_  what he was doing. Didn't they have hookers on Hala? Whatever. Peter came to his rescue. "Just follow me back to my ship," he told Ronan. Glancing sideways at the lieutenants ringing around them, he said, "Do you really want these guys standing outside while we're..."  
  
"Korath," Ronan spoke up, his voice booming with command. "You may return to the Dark Aster for the time being. I will contact you when your services are needed."  
  
"Yes, Master Ronan," said a dark-skinned lieutenant with a wicked-looking cranial implant. In moments, the White Kree lieutenants marched out of the restaurant.   
  
"Wow," breathed Peter. "They do what you want without question, huh? I mean, I could be a kidnapper or an assassin..."  
  
"My word is their law," Ronan said solemnly. "And if you did try to assassinate me, I would not need their assistance in putting you down."  
  
No kidding. Peter let out a low whistle. "Oookay. Follow me." He stood up and tried to amble out of the restaurant as casually as it is possible to be when one is a part-time space pirate, part-time space hooker who's just picked up a seven-foot-tall Blue Kree in full Accuser garb for sex. Much to his relief, Ronan did not try to make small talk on their way to the Milano. Peter felt safer with a trick when he was in his own ship, not that, realistically, he stood any chance against Ronan in a physical confrontation. The familiar shapes, the greens and greys, the little reminders of his past adventures... the Milano smelled right. It was  _his_.  
  
When they climbed onboard, the lights were so low from lack of power that Peter had to feel his way up the stairs, Ronan on his heels. Then there was a  **clang**  followed by soft cursing. Peter groped for the button for the back-up lights. They came online to reveal Ronan rubbing at the crown of his head.  
  
"Yeah, shoulda warned you," Peter told him apologetically. "The entryway is a little low, you might bump your head."  
  
Ronan seemed to peer around the cramped interior of the Milano. "Why is it so dark? Do Terran eyes function better in the near dark?"  
  
"Not really. It's more that I'm broke. I haven't been able to charge the batteries."  
  
"Ah." Ronan dug in a pocket, and took out a small device. He asked for Peter's credit number and a few moments later, the main lights came online as ten million credits hit Peter's account and paid off his outstanding debts. At the same moment, the Milano's sound system roared to life, blaring Raspberries' "Go All The Way" as Ronan reeled at the rude guitars.  
  
"Sorry about that!" Peter dove for the sound system, fumbling to turn off his Awesome Mix, and knocking his troll doll off the console as he did so. He fell to his knees and groped for it. "I'm guessing they don't have rock music on Hala?"

"No, our music is... nothing like that." Ronan frowned at the sight of the troll doll in Peter's hand.

"Oh, this?" Peter answered the unspoken question. "It's, uh, part of my altar to my childhood." He stuck it back on the console and wiped his hands on his shins. He pulled back the curtain to his bunk and gestured grandly. "Please, make yourself at home. I'm gonna take a shower real quick, if you don't mind." Peter prayed that Ronan didn't mind, because this guy had paid _ten million credits up front_ for the galaxy's grubbiest spaceport hooker. Ronan nodded his assent, so Peter straightaway climbed into his shower. He would've left the door opened as he soaped up, given Ronan a little show, but his bathroom was so cramped that when Peter brushed his teeth, his elbow bumped against the shower door. If he left the shower door wide open, the water would probably spray into Ronan's eyes. The Milano was his dream woman, the best thing that had ever happened to Peter, but she was small, let's be honest. 

Peter soaped up, paying particular attention to under his pits and between his legs. The warm water and a full belly were doing wonders for him. He could feel the tension melting out of him. If he could keep Yondu from finding out about his unexpected good fortune, all the better. "All right, big spender," Peter said as he hopped out of the shower, "Here I come--"

Ronan's armor was stacked neatly on a nearby chair. Ronan himself was stretched out on Peter's bunk, his feet danging off the end. He was wearing a sort of tunic undergarment, laying on his back with his hands folded across his chest, giving him a pensive air. Peter paused, taking him in. For a moment, he considered backing out of the whole deal, refunding Ronan's credits, and sending him on his way. _Look, thanks for the hot meal, but you know and I know that you are not cut out for this_. Then Peter remembered the ten million credits and came to his senses. Perching on the edge of the bunk, he flashed a winning smile at Ronan and said, "So, how do you want to do this thing? I could--"

He slid off the edge of the bunk and landed on his ass.

Ronan sat up. "Did you injure yourself?" Damn him, he sounded concerned.

"I'm okay! I'm okay!" Peter bounced back up to his feet. "I meant to do that!" Peter dimmed the lights, ostensibly to make the atmosphere more intimate, but really to hide any bruises he might've just got on his ass. Maybe Yondu was right after all, hooking _was_ too much work. Or maybe it was _Peter_ who wasn't really cut out for this lifestyle. Peter tried to put such thoughts out of his head. He'd done this lots of times before! He'd even been paid for it sometimes!

As he started for the bunk, Ronan said to him, "Perhaps you should just come lie beside me for the moment." He didn't have to ask twice. Peter wedged himself into the bunk beside Ronan; one of Ronan's arms was trapped beneath him, and Peter hoped that his weight didn't cause it to go numb or anything. Now that they were face to face, close enough to kiss, Ronan seemed content to take his time. He brushed his fingertips over Peter's lips, then across his scruffy chin. Up close, Ronan actually smelled _wonderful_. He didn't really smell like food or any kind of flower that Peter had ever encountered -- his was just a clean, masculine scent. Peter breathed him in, wondering what Ronan thought of him. The Kree girl that Peter had slept with had complained about Peter's "Terran stink": she compared it to a pheromone perfume. But if Ronan thought he stunk, he didn't say anything about it or let it put him off from exploring Peter's body with his hands. Ronan's hands were powerful and oddly enough, calloused. As drowsy as he was, Peter found that curious. Did Blue Kree do manual labor? Why would Ronan have such calloused hands?

Ronan's soothing touches lulled Peter into relaxation. His heartbeat slowed, and his eyes fluttered shut. He'd had his first hot meal and hot bath in almost two days, he didn't have to worry about money, and this trick seemed content to gently massage him. Even his ass didn't hurt so much anymore. Peter took one last deep breath, sucking in that delicious Ronan scent, and then, completely by accident, he fell asleep.


End file.
